Silence
by Soncnica
Summary: He's trapped in a world of silence, small talk and Sam's crying. Wee!chester fic; Dean is 4 years old, Sam is 7 months.


**A/N 1: I own absolutely nothing. Sorry for all the grammar/spelling or other mistakes you will surely find. **

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**John's journal, December 4th 1983:** _"… Last night I was sitting in Sam and Dean's room, in the dark … I stayed up all night, just watching them, protecting them … Dean still hardly talks … I try to make small talk … he never budges from my side – or from his brother … every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam … like he's trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night …"_

_-:-_

Mary is dead. For a month now. His sweetheart is dead and he feels so hollow, the air he breaths in just gets lots somewhere along the way and he chokes on nothing. There's nothing filling up his lungs, but misery and pain and despair and …

… _what am I supposed to do now_?

_Mary, what am I supposed to do?_

Dean's not talking. He's so quiet; sometimes the silence is so loud its killing John. Dean is killing him, but he doesn't know what to do. Mary would know, he doesn't. He doesn't know anything. All he knows is that Dean is silent, so, so silent and following him around all day long, never leaving him out of his sight, never leaving his side; sometimes Dean's glued to his thigh with small arms holding tight. As if he's afraid, scared, terrified John would disappear too. Go away like mommy did. Leave and never come back.

He doesn't push Dean away, he doesn't tell him to stop following him like a lost puppy, because this is his son, his sweet, sweet boy and he's just as lost as John is. They are both lost and holding to each other like any one of them could vanish at any time.

Sam though … Sam cries a lot. Babies do, Mary told him that. Babies cry to ''communicate'', because they don't know words yet. But Sam cries and cries and cries all day long, all the time. Sam cries, while Dean is silent like a stone, like he's giving Sam the chance to wail out his grief.

He's just so damn lost, he can't do this. He can't take care of them. His two baby boys. His blood and flesh. His and Mary's.

He just wishes Dean would talk. Say something, anything. Scream, cry, whisper, groan, fight, rage, bite, kick, whimper, grunt, yell, anything, just anything. But he doesn't. He just sits and plays with his toys while Sam is in the crib looking at his big brother with tears running down his red cheeks. Always crying.

It's tearing him apart. This ... this sadness, this pain he feels every time he looks at his boys. He's falling apart; right into the beer bottles he drinks to numb himself.

He shouldn't numb himself, he has two boys to take care of, be a father to them, love them and teach them things fathers are supposed to.

Mary would tell him that, if she was still here. She would straighten him up, dust him off, throw away all the alcohol and kick his ass into a higher gear.

Because he has his boys to take care of.

-:-

"Hey Deano, whatcha doin' there?"

His son's playing with some Legos Mike gave him, he can see him building a tower or something on the carpeted floor. The carpet is uneven, so the tower is like the tower of Pisa, but it doesn't matter because he just needs his oldest to say something.

Nothing. Just silence and Legos on top of each other.

"Building a tower, huh?"

He needs a response; he needs a word to come out of that tightly shut mouth, just one word. It can even be a cuss word, he won't mind.

Nothing. Just more Legos on already unsteady Legos.

He sighs and looks at the crib. Sam is watching him. For a seven month old baby, his eyes are expressive as if he had already lived a million years. Wise, and big and soft. And filled with tears all the time.

"I guess 'm disturbing your big brother, Sam."

Sam gurgles, bubbles of spit through his pink lips.

"You laughing at me, buddy, huh?"

He looks back at Dean:"Sammy's laughing at me."

He wants Dean to say something to that, but he doesn't. Doesn't even smile.

Just puts another Lego on top of the listening tower and then it all comes crashing down. The Legos get scattered all over the floor and he expects Dean to react, throw a fit and get angry. But he doesn't. He doesn't do anything, just collects the Legos and starts again.

He doesn't know what to do. People around him say that Dean not talking is normal and that he will stop and then talk his ear off, but ... but with all this silence its hard to believe that.

He just wants Dean to speak. To break this horrible silence and emptiness and darkness that will consume him alive, if his son won't talk to him and fill his days with chatter. Like he did when Mary was still alive. Back then Dean didn't know how to shut up. It was talk, talk, talk all the time, except when he was sleeping. But even then Dean made noises.

He wants those days back, but he knows they will never, ever come back. He will never have Mary again, never hold her and smell her and have her and look at her. He will never hear her voice say _I love you, I need you, I miss you. _

But he damn well will hear his boy speak. One day he will.

-:-

"Okay, Dean, 's time for bed."

It probably isn't, but he doesn't know when the boys went to sleep when Mary was still alive, she took care of that, but he thinks eight in the evening is as good a time as any. And even if Dean doesn't talk, he knows what time for bed means. Teeth, PJ's, bed. He might not talk, but he's a smart, sharp kid ... like Mary.

-:-

He sits in a chair, with a half empty bottle of beer hanging from his almost limp fingers, he's so damn close to falling asleep, he can taste it in the back of his throat, or maybe that's the beer trying to come back up ... when he hears it. Rustling sheets on Dean's bed.

A sigh.

The room's darkish, just the street lamp from outside illuminating the ceiling and part of Dean's bed, but otherwise its dark. He's sitting in the corner of the room, where he can watch his boys sleep, one on the bed and the other one in the crib, where he sees them and knows they're safe.

He needs to keep them safe. He needs to keep them alive; he needs them to grow up strong and smart.

And right now, he can see Dean getting up from the bed and stumbling half asleep towards Sam's crib. He wants to ask Dean if he needs anything, where he's going, but he stays silent. He knows Dean can't see him, knows he's there, but the kid probably thinks he's asleep, and not choking on his tears. So he stays silent. Just watches how Dean expertly climbs into the crib, scoots closer to Sam, who twitches and moves his chubby little arm hitting Dean directly in the face.

Dean's quiet, doesn't even _oompf_, just curls closer to Sam, squeezing the little body to him as much as he dares, because John knows that Dean would never, ever do anything that would hurt his little brother. There's such a strong love there, such patience and need and trust that John knows Dean would never do anything to hurt Sam.

And the fact that Sam doesn't even wake up when being maneuvered like that, speaks volumes too.

He closes his eyes and breathes out, wanting to fall asleep. Because when he sleeps, he dreams of Mary. He dreams of her smiling at him, he dreams of her gentle touch on him, he dreams of her cooking and doing laundry and sitting on the couch watching TV. He dreams of holding her in his arms, kissing her, holding her hand. He has her back ... in his dreams. Sometimes he wants to fall asleep and never wake up, so that he could be with her forever.

But he has his two little boys to take care of. He needs to keep them safe, keep them with him. And as much as he wants to be with Mary, he _needs_ to be with his two boys more.

"Sammy..."

His eyes snap open and he nearly drops the beer bottle, but squeezes his fingers at the last moment.

Dean.

His son's voice is raspy from not using it for a month, but the word is as clear as a bell.

Dean.

Before he catches his breath and his vision clears of tears, Dean's eyes are closed and his hand is clasped tightly around Sam's chubby forearm. Protecting his little brother. Keeping him close.

If he won't talk to him, he will talk to Sam.

_Doesn't matter as long as he talks, right, Mary?_

He puts the bottle down on the floor and hides his face in his hands. It doesn't muffle his sobs, but he can't ... he just can't.

-:-

**John's journal, December 11th, 1983:** _"…Sammy has finally started sleeping through the night, and now that Dean shares a bed with him, he's out like a light as well."_

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**The End**

**A/N 2: John's journal can be found on supernaturalwiki so just turn on your mad searching skillz.**


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